


Further Reflections

by Darwin (imperfectcircle)



Series: Stories by theme: Crossovers [1]
Category: Discworld - Pratchett, Sandman - Gaiman
Genre: Crossover, F/F, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2004, recipient:Katta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-21
Updated: 2004-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:07:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectcircle/pseuds/Darwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Susan meets a girl wearing very silly make up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Further Reflections

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kattahj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattahj/gifts).



> With thanks to my wonderful betas. You know who you are.  
> **Warnings:** None ([see policy](http://imperfectcircle.livejournal.com/29823.html))

Elsewhere, the planets dance around each other like angels on the head of a pin, with suns for gods and moons for lovers. Elsewhere, the demands of duty and family are key.

But here and now, perhaps, they who were there before the dance began and will be there to hear the final note may be allowed a moment of respite.

The Prince of Stories is, of course, the first to come to the world of stories more often than the needs of his realm dictate. He takes a lover: a dwarf with a silky-soft beard and her grandmother's axe. When his younger siblings find out, two laugh and two sigh. None are surprised.

Soon, though, they all come here to rest.

===

Wesson Thripplecreak swallowed. The Archchancellor was looking at his notes again, in a manner designed to convey that when he looked up he was planning to forget he was supposed to be playing the Good Nightwatchman. Ponder Stibbons, reluctant to give up his role as the nasty one[1], gave one final glower at Wesson.

"What drove you to it?" he asked. In a stern and unsympathetic manner, of course.

"I-" Wesson paused. It was, of course, about a girl. It always is.[2] But even if it hadn't been for the inconvenient fact of the wizards' vow of chastity, he wasn't about to tell this to the Unseen University's Board of Discipline. The board's pomp and circumstance - designed by wizards, whose magpie-like fascination with all things sparkly extended well into such matters - did not inspire such confessions. It's very hard to confide in sequins. "I was under a lot of stress."

This was too much for the already much put upon Archchancellor. "Stress? Stress? When I was a student, we knew about stress! You young whippersnappers today-"

Wesson, drawing on those special powers he shared with all people under thirty, could automatically tune out any speech containing the word "whippersnapper". It was all her fault. If only she had noticed him, he wouldn't have been driven to such lengths. He'd tried, he really had. Maybe the Nanny Ogg's Special Tincture had been going a little far, but, in fairness, he couldn't have known not to enter the library wearing it.

"-we didn't resort to _suicide_. We pulled ourselves up by our breeches and set about dealing with our problems. And if we tried to kill ourselves, by gods we did it _right_. None of this-"

Admittedly, trying to kill himself by means of an adapted version of the Rite of AshkEnte had been a little flashy, but - as recourse to the Special Tincture had demonstrated - he was willing to try anything to get her to notice him.

"-and if we had tried to kill ourselves," the Archchancellor continued, the be-sequinned fellow members of the board nodding in agreement, "we would have damned well done it right."

At that, there was a gentle smattering of applause.

[1]It was less effort. Also, Ponder found that radiating avuncular concern, while fun, had the not unpredictable effect of making him look younger than the students he was supposed to be interrogating.

[2]Well, sometimes it's about a boy. And in one case, expunged from University records, a goat.

===

Destiny sits and reads by Hex, occasionally looking up to watch the movement of the ants around an ancient teddy bear. Ponder Stibbons brings him tea, and does not tell the librarian about the book.

===

One of the Discworld's most popular writers, Isaac Behemoth, once wrote that the phrase in magic that heralds the most discoveries is not "Eureka!"[1] but "That's funny..." This statement is much reviled by _real_ wizards, who know neither phrase leads to the kind of discovery preceded by "Oh dear gods... DUCK!".

Mr Thripplecreak's ill-fated attempt to deliver himself into the waiting rather bony arms of Death with a mere 4cc of mouse blood, a pickled herring and some dribbly candles did succeed up to a point. The point up to which it succeeded was currently sitting in a chalk circle in the middle of his room, smiling up at a local schoolteacher, who had with a minimum of fuss been brought in to talk to her.

If there's one thing wizards hate more than fresh vegetables and healthy exercise, it's having to ask for help. And if there's one thing wizards hate even more than that, it's having to ask for help from someone who isn't a wizard. By the time they have to ask for help from a non-male non-wizard, many find themselves having odd cravings for broccoli and an early morning run. The fact that the lady in question was Death's granddaughter didn't help, either. But after Thripplecreak's misadventure and the entire faculty's failed attempts to send the summoned creature back, it was either Susan or her grandfather. Susan, at least, could be relied upon not to grin all the damned time.

"That's funny," said Susan, who didn't find it remotely funny. "You don't have a blue thread."

The girl smiled at her. For all her pale and interesting make up - _she'd be quite pretty if you could see her through the face paints_, Susan thought, resisting her inner governess's urge to spit on a hanky and wipe some of that dreadful stuff off - she seemed to be taking the business being summoned by a love-sick wizard rather calmly.

She looked like the type of mildly hysterical girl the Ramstops witches would reject for training out of hand, sending her away with a scowl or a sweetie. Maybe beneath the cheap jewellery and black lace - and really, if not for the obvious, she'd catch her death of cold wearing so little - there was some genuine magical pragmatism, biding its time until its owner discovered the joys of sensible shoes and a nice, warm coat.

"Blue thread?" she asked.

Susan's sensible hair untied and retied itself in consternation. "You are dead, aren't you?" That was what normally happened when something like this went wrong. A botched Rite of AshkEnte - _and really, why they didn't just_ ask_ Grandfather to visit, rather than doing such unpleasant things to the mouse_ \- summoned someone whose link to their body had not been as completely severed as one might hope. It was just a case of snipping the blue thread correctly and hoping Grandfather didn't find out.

The girl smiled again. "You could say that, yes."

Of course Grandfather would find out. Or rather, of course Grandfather would _know_. All she could hope was that he didn't say anything.

"And if I did say that," Susan asked, "would it be an accurate summary of events?"

The girl laughed, a glittering tinkle of a laugh that spoke of babbling brooks and lazy summer afternoons watching butterflies flit from flower to flower. Susan's teeth gritted of their own accord. Girls like this could benefit from a few months spent balancing large, heavy books on their heads. Not, as at the Quirm College for Young Ladies, to teach them deportment, merely to keep them from skipping merrily about the place.

"No." The girl was smiling apologetically, as if she really did wish she could be dead, just to help Susan out. "I'm Death."

Susan took a deep breath[2] and turned to leave, thanking all the gods who could be relied upon not to listen for the chalk circle keeping the girl from following her out.

Behind her, the girl stepped out of the chalk circle. "Would you like to get something to eat? I know a peachy-keen restaurant over on Esoteric Street."

[1]Lit: Who stole my towel?

[2]The one every child in Miss Susan's class recognised as his or her cue to sit down, shut up and try very, very hard not to attract the teacher's attention for the rest of the lesson.

===

Desire, recovering from a tree thrown at the back of its head by an amorous troll, stays up into the wee small hours with Nanny Ogg. They drink apple juice - well, it is _mostly_ apples - and swap recipes.

Its twin keeps her rats safe from the dwarfs, sitting on a mountain top listening to the trolls' legends of the sunset of the world.

===

Susan sipped her drink warily.

After leaving the University, they had sampled Cut Me Own Throat Dibbler's meat product products. Susan had been so surprised that Mr Dibbler had given the girl her sausage in a bun for free she'd taken a bite of her own before common sense kicked in with its steel toecapped boots. After that, she'd needed a drink to steady her nerves, and where better to take the girl than Biers?

"I know, I know," said the girl. "I can't be Death. Death doesn't exist. And if he did - which he doesn't - he'd be a seven foot skeleton with a scythe and a robe."

WHO TALKS LIKE THIS, added Susan, almost to herself.

"Oh." The girl fell silent for a moment, frowning at her drink[1] as if she had tried to sit down on a chair that wasn't there. "He really _is_ your grandfather. I though you were just one of Del's."

If Susan had removed the girl's chair, the girl had retaliated by confiscating all her furniture and her ceiling, walls and floor. It didn't seem quite fair.

The girl threw back her head and laughed loudly, frightening a pair of skittish vampires huddled together in the far corner.

"That's what I _love_ about this world! You're not one of Delirium's. You're not even one of Dream's. You people are your own stories, and your stories are _fun_!"

Susan gave the girl a Look. It was that or cough politely, and that was the start of a slippery slope. One day it was polite coughing, the next it was apologising when people bumped into you.

"I _like_ people. Not like my brother. He-" She leaned forward over her drink conspiratorially. "He has a new girlfriend. She's called Glod Stronginthearmson."

Susan, who'd found herself leaning in to hear this titbit in spite of herself, pulled back quickly in order not to laugh in the girl's face. She was hardly in a position to pass judgment, but... Well, while she wouldn't say that Glod Stronginthearmson _couldn't_ be a name that spoke of epic romance, the romantic epics in question concentrated more on the precise classification of the veins of semiprecious metal found in the suitor's coal mines and less on hearts and flowers than the girl's expression suggested.

"See, he likes one person at a time. He doesn't even like the person - he likes the stories he can tell himself about them. He likes your world a lot. But he doesn't like _people_." The girl stabbed her straw down into her drink for emphasis. "I like people. And I like you."

[1]It was pink, with a cute curly straw. The barman had been so surprised to discover Biers served such monstrosities that he'd forgotten to charge her for it.

===

Delirium makes velvet frogs that taste of moonshine and croak in yellow for Lord Vetinari, whose kindness reminds her of her doggie.

===

SQUEAK, said the cowled figure on Susan's mantelpiece.

INDEED, said the cowled figure on Susan's best chair. IT IS COMPLICATED.

Susan nodded encouragingly. It was a nod her class would have recognised as Miss Susan's Patient Nod. They would have been surprised to see it followed by Miss Susan's Losing Patience Eyeroll, but then, so was she. It was a new addition to the repertoire and one she suspected was the girl's fault.

SHE IS DEATH. HER FAMILY ARE . . . WHO THEY SAY THEY ARE.

SQUEAK. The Death of Rats began gnawing on a decorative silver knickknack given to her by the grateful parent of one of her former students. For reasons known only to the parent, it was in the shape of a duck.

"Stop that," Susan said absentmindedly, knowing it wouldn't. "But then, are _you_ you, Grandfather?"

YES. IT IS, AS I SAID, COMPLICATED. I AM TIED TO THIS WORLD. IT IS TIED TO ME. THERE ARE MORE BONDS BETWEEN HER AND THE UNIVERSES, AND THOSE BONDS ARE BOTH TIGHTER AND LOOSER. Death grinned. Susan was used to this. THAT IS NOT A GOOD EXPLANATION.

A skull is not the ideal canvas on which to paint a picture of guileless innocence, and Susan suspected her grandfather wouldn't have been very good at it even with a better starting base. SHE IS VERY PRETTY.

Susan's teeth, only just ungritted from having to deal with those bloody wizards, clenched together again. She raised an eyebrow pointedly.

SQUEAK SQUEAK EEK.

"Don't be silly," said Susan, ignoring her grandfather in favour of the rat. "She's far too young."

NO, said Death, SHE ISN'T.

It was, she had to admit, true. The girl was, well, old enough to be Susan's grandfather. "Then I'm far too young. Either way, one of us is. And this silly and uncalled for speculation isn't helping matters."

HUMANS BENEFIT FROM THE COMPANY OF THOSE THEY FIND ATTRACTIVE, said Death. THEY WRITE POEMS ABOUT IT.

The Death of Rats squeaked at length, while Death and Susan sipped their tea from bone china cups. The crockery gave her a mean and petty pleasure. It was a lot easier to feel guilty about that when she wasn't having her romantic life dissected in such unflattering detail.

"Grandfather," she said as the smaller skeleton paused emphatically to resume chewing on the silver duck. "Do you have anything to add to this lecture?"

YOU LIKE HER.

Susan's hair tightened in its terribly sensible bun.

===

Destruction, whose presence here Destiny has not revealed to the others, lends Leonard of Quirm his paints. Neither of them can get that damned smile right.

===

The next time Susan saw the girl[1] was during a brisk stroll around the school grounds one lunchtime.

"Cute." The girl's voice perched on the border between approving and mocking, enjoying the view.

Susan hid her smile before turning to face the new arrival. "May I help you?"

"I don't know. May you?"

It was time to invoke the name of a higher power. Not a higher power than Susan, admittedly, but she felt sure that in the distant world of _other people_, the headmistress was a higher power. "Madam Frout prefers visitors to the Academy to make themselves known before wandering the grounds." This measure was intended to protect the children from unmediated contact with the outside world. Susan suspected it was also intended to protect Madam Frout from much the same.

"You know me," the girl pointed out. "And since when were you concerned with Madam Frout's preferences?"

Susan took a deep breath. Madam Frout had, in her own way[3], been very kind to her, and she felt she should feel a vague discomfort at letting others' uncharitable words pass without comment.

"Can we go to Biers for lunch? That was fun last time."

Susan breathed out. Yes, well. The slightly self-conscious indignation would just make the girl smile at her again, and possibly reiterate that Susan reminded her of her younger brother.

Biers had indeed been . . . fun, loath as Susan was to admit it. The girl had been polite to the bogey men, and applauded Fred's juggling act as if she'd never seen that many skulls fly through the air before. She'd smiled at the ghouls and complimented a nervous-looking vampire on her lace hairpiece.

Grandfather was right: Susan did like the girl. She saw people as clearly as Susan did - more clearly - but she liked them. She laughed at them, she laughed with them, but she _liked_ them. It was a talent, Susan grudgingly supposed, she might benefit from herself.

"I think," said the girl, linking her arm into Susan's before the latter had a chance to object, "I'll have the drink with the olives. That looked nifty keen. What will you have?"

[1]She couldn't think of her as Death, and Didi, the name the girl suggested, was suitable only for small dogs with improbable hair.[2]

[2]Not the kind a dog gets from chasing a mongoose backwards through a slurry pit, but the other kind. The expensive kind.

[3]The Frout Method of Learning Through Fun. Details available on request.

====

Elsewhere, the planets dance around each other like angels on the head of a pin, with suns for gods and moons for lovers. Elsewhere, the demands of duty and family are key.

But here and now, perhaps, they who were there before the dance began and will be there to hear the final note may be allowed a moment of friendship.

===

End

===

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